


with abandon

by Idday



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Chefs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14663904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: Jack's a Michelin starred chef who's traveled around the world and appeared on countless TV shows and who owns a whole empire of restaurants. His net worth very well might be more than the Oiler's combined roster because people love his food so much.Connor's one of the worst (Canadian) cooks in America.Celebrity edition.





	with abandon

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooooo please don't come further if you are/know these people. Why would you even want to.
> 
> This is a lot about cooking and chefs, so food features prominently, including mentions of what might be considered disordered eating. Also in this verse, Jack doesn't play hockey because of an injury from a car accident when he was young, but there is no more detail than that. Let me know if I should tag or warn better/differently!

"Congratulations," Leon says, and throws something at him. It might be his phone. It's not exactly the ideal way to wake up from a nap, heading into game six of the conference finals. "You're officially one of the worst cooks in America." 

"Wha," Connor says, intelligently. 

"You report to boot camp in four weeks," Leon says. Connor's still waiting for him to say something that makes sense, which. He doesn't. He just leaves, as abruptly as he arrived. 

"I'm Canadian," Connor says, to the closing hotel door. 

… 

So, they lose in the conference finals, which sucks, but also nobody really repeats with the Cup, so he'll take his lumps and lick his wounds.  

Perhaps more unfortunately, what Connor had assumed was an ill-planned joke is... very much not so. His asshole teammates had nominated him for some dumb cooking show, and PR thinks it will make him seem more human and less like 'one of the cardboard cut-outs they sell in the team store, Connor,' and he's got nothing but time on his hands until August, so.  

Connor is now one of the worst cooks in America. 

Celebrity edition. 

… 

Connor feels pretty firmly that cooking is not a part of his job description. Connor plays hockey and Connor scores goals, and so Connor makes enough money that Connor pays someone else to do his cooking. So.  

Yeah, okay. Maybe he is one of the worst Canadian cooks in America. 

… 

Not that he'll admit that, of course. 

… 

WEEK 1 

… 

"Welcome to boot camp," Chef Hilary says. There's something sweet about her smile, and then she says, "how many of you have ever poisoned your friends or family?" 

So, the warm fuzzies disappear pretty fast.  

Connor doesn't raise his hand, though Nuge might beg to differ.  

"How many of you have ever started a fire in your kitchen," Chef Jack says. There is nothing sweet about him.  

Connor does raise his hand, this time, because. Like. His landlord would probably not beg to differ.  

Chef Jack squints at him, or maybe the girl next to him, who is very small and very blonde and raised her hand to both questions. Connor's pretty sure she used to be on some CW show.  

"Batting a thousand," Jack says, so. Yeah. He was staring at the girl, which doesn’t really excuse the way that Connor is sweating.  

"You were all nominated by your friends or your family," Chef Hilary says, "or even yourselves. So we want you to show us what you're working with. For your first challenge, we want you to make us your signature dish." 

"You have sixty minutes," Jack says, "your time starts now." 

… 

Connor very frequently does more with sixty minutes than cook one plate of food, so, no problem.  

Right.  

He doesn't exactly have a signature dish, because that would require knowing how to use his stove, probably, but. 

Okay, game day meal: chicken and pasta. Those both sound like things that he is capable of accomplishing.  

He's sharing a station with the blonde girl—Jenny, he thinks—who is currently trying to cut open gummy-bears with a still-sheathed knife. Connor's not a betting man, but he likes his chances. 

He's pretty sure that raw chicken is bad to eat, so he decides to start with that, to give it long enough to cook.  

He finds a pan and spends a few minutes with the burner. The open flame makes him a little nervous, so he puts it on low, and then looks at his raw chicken and puts it on high, and then compromises and puts it on medium.  

Pasta is like, easy. Even he can boil water, so he puts some water in the pot and then adds the pasta and then puts it on another burner, and. He's done. 

He feels very calm. He's pretty sure there's a fire across the kitchen. Someone is definitely screaming.  

"You know what they say about watched pots," Chef Jack says, appearing at his shoulder. Connor slips and almost puts his open palm right in his pan of chicken, he's so startled. 

"Um," he says. 

"What are you making?" Jack asks.  

"Chicken and pasta," Connor says. "It's not, like. I don't really cook that much, but it's what I eat before a game, so." 

"It looks like you're pretty much done," Jack says mildly, "with forty-five minutes left." 

"I'm not  _done_ done," Connor says. "I still have to, like. Put it on a plate." 

"So with sixty minutes on the clock," Jack says, "you're only useful for twenty of them. Is this how your team feels?" 

He might be joking. He's not really smiling, but his eyes are kind of, like, warm.  

"Uh," Connor says. 

Jack nods at him, decisively, and then reaches over. For a second, Connor thinks he's going to touch him—take his hand or pat his shoulder. Then, Jack reaches down and turns on the burner that his pasta is sitting on. 

"That might help," he says. 

… 

"What did you make for us?" Chef Hilary asks. 

"It's..." Connor says. The plate is covered in a fine greenish sheen. There's a pile of pasta and a charred chicken breast. "It's chicken and pasta," he says, a little weakly.  

Chef Jack spears a chicken breast with his fork. "How long did you cook this?" He asks.  

"I don't know?"  

"I know," Jack says. "It was forty-five minutes."  

A few blackened flakes float to his plate. 

"I didn't want it to be raw?" Connor offers. 

"Yeah, you definitely don't have that problem," Chef Hilary says. Cutting into her chicken is requiring some distinct sawing motions. It looks sort of shriveled on the inside. 

"So what is this pasta situation," Jack says. When he picks up one noodle, the rest of the pasta-like blob goes with it.  

"It got kind of dry when I drained it," Connor says, "so then I added some oil so it wouldn’t stick together. And then that happened." 

Jack actually picks up the plate and drains the oil off, which is. Embarrassing. There's a lot of it. "Edmonton is oil country, right?" He says. 

Chef Hillary is still working at the chicken, which. Isn't much better. She still hasn't cut through it.  

"Um," Connor says.  

"So if I had to describe your signature in one word after tasting this dish," Jack says, "that word would be bland." 

All in all, it's not a stellar start. 

… 

Chef Jack picks him second-to-last for the blue team, which. 

It's better than being picked last. 

Probably. Connor wouldn't know.  

… 

WEEK 2 

... 

"Using the meat mallet to smash the garlic was probably overkill," Jack says. He spears one of the garlic bits, which have gone a little-crispy and chip-like in the pan. Also, more than a little black. It's not what Jack's dish had looked like, but he'd used a knife to smash his garlic, which had looked like a great way to cut Connor's hand off, so. 

If they hadn't wanted him to use a hammer in the kitchen, they shouldn't have put one there. 

"But your pork is cooked well, so although the garlic is bitter and practically inedible, the dish is salvageable. Not the worst." 

"Thanks, Jack," Connor says. His dish is pitiful, but he appreciates Jack not saying that. Graham's had been practically still oinking, so he's safe from going home, at least.  

He thinks. 

Jack puts his knife down carefully. "Chef," he says. 

"Sorry?" 

"When I come to your rink," Jack says, "I'll address you as captain. I'll address you however you want. This is my kitchen. You will address me as chef." 

Connor flushes. He can feel his ears burning. It's embarrassing, and it's even more embarrassing that he's struggling not to find it attractive, the way Jack—Chef Jack—is looking at him, eyes narrowed, arms crossed and biceps bulging under his chef's whites. He shouldn't be... it's not allowed, for him to want someone like this. 

It's not who Connor McDavid is.  

"Sorry, Chef," Connor says. 

… 

WEEK 3 

… 

"The cook on your steak is good," Chef Jack says. 

Connor flushes, twists his fingers together. He's not sure he's every touched a raw cut of beef before tonight, so he'll take the W. 

"Thanks, Chef," he says. 

"However," Chef says. Connor can practically hear the ominous music they'll edit over his voice. "If you ever bring me an under-seasoned dish again, I will send you home immediately. Understood?" 

"Yes, Chef," Connor says.  

… 

Connor's agent calls as the remaining contestants are all filing out for the night. He takes it, a little impatiently, tossing his blue apron aside. He's waiting for news on a contract extension.  

There's no news, but there's rumors of another lockout—they hash that out for a while before Connor finally hangs up. 

When he finally throws open the back door of the soundstage, he nearly bowls Chef over before he realizes someone else is standing there, on the upper landing of the staircase, and pulls up short. 

"Woah," Chef says. He's holding a lit cigarette between his fingers, and he's left his chef's coat inside, dressed down in a nearly-translucent white tee. His arms are tattooed down past the elbows, just high enough to be covered by his whites when he wears them, which Connor is ashamed to admit is something that he already knew.  

"Sorry, Chef," Connor says. "I thought I was the only one left." 

"Yeah, me too," Chef says. "And this isn't my kitchen, Connor. You don’t have to call me that, now." 

"Oh," Connor says, and then, because it's instinct and he doesn't know how else to fill the silence, "sorry." 

Jack takes another drag from his cigarette. Connor watches, a little helpless, and thinks,  _you're not_ _supposed to make that look good._  

Jack sees him watching. If it wasn't so dark—if Connor didn't know better—he would think that Jack flushes. "Old habit," Jack says, and stubs the butt out on the railing, "Bad habit, obviously. I've quit, mostly." 

Connor shrugs. "We must stress you out, I guess." 

Jack laughs, a little. "I mean. Jenny did try to make mashed potatoes with a juicer today." 

"In her defense," Connor says, and then stalls out. "No, I changed my mind. There's not much of a defense for that." 

"Considering that she didn't know what an onion looked like last week," Jack says, "I mean. It's TV, you know? If you were all good cooks it wouldn't be much of a show." 

"But you wouldn't have to eat charred chicken, either. Sorry about that, by the way." 

"Ah, yeah," Jack says. He's young, which Connor forgets sometimes, because he's so competent. They're the same age, he's pretty sure, but Jack's a Michelin starred chef who's traveled around the world and appeared on countless TV shows and owns a whole empire of restaurants. His net worth very well might be more than the Oiler's combined roster because people love his food so much, and Connor force-fed him overcooked pasta. It's mortifying, when he thinks about it, so. He tries not to. "That was. Not good. But, you know, if I tried to come, like, play hockey with you. I'd probably be just as bad." 

Connor knows that's not true, but he's not sure he's ready to admit that. One of Jack's biggest tattoos is a cross, the bottom just showing beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt where he's leaning on the metal railing of the staircase, strong forearms bared. Below that is a pair of crossed hockey sticks.  

"Didn't you used to play?" Connor says, and reaches out to point at the tattoo. He almost touches, but. He doesn't. 

Jack looks at him. He looks like he wishes he still had that cigarette. "It was a long time ago," he says. 

"I—" Connor starts, and then his phone rings, loud and abrupt. It's his agent. "I have to take this," he finishes, lamely. "Sorry." 

Jack shrugs. By the time Connor's off the phone, he's gone. 

… 

WEEK 4 

… 

"This is a surprisingly good eggs benedict," Chef tells him. "The yolk is nice and runny; the English muffins are well toasted. Unsurprisingly, the Canadian bacon has been done well. A little less butter in the hollandaise, I think would really put you over the edge. Nice job, overall." 

Connor's not allowed to eat eggs benedict, but even if he were, he's positive his slightly lopsided plate wouldn't compare with what Chef had prepared them as an example, earlier.  

"Thanks, Chef," he says. 

… 

"Hi," Connor says, a little shyly, when he pushes open the back door to the studio stage. He hadn't been  _expecting_  Jack to be there, necessarily—some night he's not. 

But most nights, he is. 

"Hey," Jack says, typing something on his phone. He slides it into his back pocket when he's done, says, "Sorry," like he owes Connor anything. "My sister," he offers.  

"Oh," Connor says, "how is she?" He doesn't even know her name. It feels like he should. 

"Good," Jack says. "She's—I'm gonna be an uncle, soon. In like a month. I can't wait." 

"Oh, wow," Connor says. Jack's T-shirt is black, tonight. His hair is standing up in back, one curl springing free, like he'd had his hands in it. "That's awesome. My brother still won't propose to his girlfriend." 

"Older?" 

"Yeah," Connor says, "But we haven't—I was already away from home playing hockey when he finished high school, and he was away at university by the time I got back. We aren't as close as we should be." 

Jack makes a humming noise. "Jess was the only one I could stand to be around, after," he says.  

Connor doesn't say,  _after what?_ He should, probably, because he should still be pretending not to know. It's been three or four nights now, of them talking like this. It still hasn't come up.  

"I used to play," Jack says, before Connor can work up the courage to say anything, "you asked, before. I said it was a long time ago, and it was, but. Yeah, I used to play." 

"Were you good?" Connor asks. It's probably the wrong thing to say. He knows, anyway. He remembers. 

"Ah," Jack says. He's almost laughing, which is better than the alternative. "We would have been the same draft year, I think. I would have given you a run for your money. I was about to leave for Michigan, for the U.S. dev program." 

He's quiet for long enough that Connor figures that Jack wants him to ask. "What happened?" 

Jack shrugs. "Car accident," he says. "Fluky thing. But—hockey was over, after I got out of the hospital. It took me a long time to realize that it didn't mean that my life was over, too." 

"I'm sorry," Connor says softly. 

"Don't be" Jack says. "I've done okay for myself, I think." 

… 

WEEK 5 

… 

"If you don't take this seriously," Chef says, "I will send you home in a heartbeat." 

He's talking to Jenny, but Connor looks down at his own sad bowl of half-melted gelato and gulps.  

"Food isn't about calories," he says. He doesn't sound mad, but he sounds. Serious. "Good cooking is about more than being fuel. Anybody can eat to live. Anybody can order a meal service or go to a fast-food restaurant or make a frozen pizza. If that was all it was about, chefs wouldn't have a job." 

Connor thinks of his freezer at home—of the way it's easiest to send his diet plan to a private chef once a month and use his microwave for three minutes a day. He can't remember the last time he turned on his stove, in his house. He doesn't own any knives that aren't butter knives.  

"Good food should mean more than that. Good food should make memories and help you recall old ones. Good food should mean you and your family and your friends at their happiest." 

"Yes, Chef," Jenny says, to her shoes. She's facing elimination, but then, so is Connor.  

"We don't cook just because we love food," Chef says. "At least, I don't. For me, cooking is about caring. Cooking allows me to demonstrate that caring, to my family and friends, and to the customers that I'm fortunate enough to host at my restaurants. That's a responsibility, to me. It's something that I take very seriously." 

"Yes, Chef," Jenny says.  

Chef sighs, and lets her over-eggy gelato run off his spoon. "I'm hard on you because I believe you can do better. I believe that you have the talent. I just need to see that you care." 

He meets Connor's eyes over her head. Connor swallows, hard.  

"Unfortunately, Jenny," he says, "I just didn't see enough of that today. So I have to ask you for your apron." 

… 

"That was rough," Connor says. At some point, they're going to have to stop meeting behind their sound stage. Not that he thinks that their producers don't know, of course. Not that he thinks it’s the reason he's still in the running for $50,000 for his favorite charity.   

But. 

"Her gelato was like a mouthful of scrambled eggs," Jack says, and then then the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Not that yours was much better. Maple-flavored, really? You're a walking parody of yourself, Connor." 

He still has an accent. Not much of one, anymore, after so long on TV. But when he's tired, like tonight, or when he's angry—when he's saying as Connor tries to break down a whole chicken,  _I know eight-year-olds who can do this in under ten minutes, Connor_ —it comes out around the edges of his name. The 'r' drops off the end and the 'o's go broad.  

The first time Connor had heard of him—well. Everybody's heard of him. When he knew he was coming on the show, though, his teammates had thrown an ill-advised Jack Eichel marathon. In hindsight, it would have been better if he hadn't known what he was getting into, if he hadn't already noticed the way Jack didn't bother to smooth over his rough edges and the way he looked in his chef's whites. If Connor hadn't already seen the way he looked out of them. 

He'd had the accent, still, in the first documentary—fresh out of culinary school and opening a restaurant in his home city of Boston. He'd been wearing a backwards ball cap behind the line for most of that one. He'd looked impossibly young. It had been filmed the same year that Connor had made the playoffs for the first time.  

He'd lost it, mostly, by the time he'd started judging the kid's cooking show that Connor's teammates had binged over two nights. He'd knelt down next to one little girl, crying over a lopsided tart, and he'd talked her through restarting it. She had been from Boston, too, Connor remembers, because she'd been wearing a Bruins hat that Jack had complimented.  

If Connor had made him a lopsided tart—actually, he had, last week, and Jack hadn't kneeled anywhere near him. But then, Connor's not eight years old, and he wouldn't be caught dead in Bruins gear, and Jack had found something positive to say about his dessert, anyway.  

"Is that why you started cooking," Connor says, and Jack frowns at the non-sequitur. "Because you care about feeding people, I mean." 

Jack looks away, and then pulls a cigarette out, which Connor knows he avoids doing around him, even though Connor doesn’t mind watching him smoke. It feels... illicit. More than their meetings already are.  

So, it's probably not something that Jack wants to discuss, then. 

Jack doesn't light it. He doesn't speak, for a while. "I didn't want to eat, after the accident," he says finally. "Or, I guess. I didn't want to do anything, really, but eating felt. Useless. Food had always been a means to playing hockey, and without that it didn't seem like there was a reason to do it." 

Connor's never carried a lighter, before. He considers it. He considers the fact that he wants to, now.  

"It was my sister's birthday and we went to this really nice restaurant in downtown Boston," Jack continues, finally, "It was basically the first time I had left home since the accident that I wasn't going to the doctor's office. It was the first time I felt hungry in months. I just remember realizing, like. I don't know. There are other reasons to eat besides needing to pack on weight for the preseason or needing to get through twenty-minute shifts. You can eat because it tastes good. You can eat because you're there with your family and you're still alive even though maybe you shouldn't be and you're celebrating something." 

"And so you decided to become a chef?" 

"I mean," Jack says, suddenly casual, and then he does fish a lighter out from his back pocket and finally lights the cigarette he's still holding, "I didn't exactly go home and say, 'I'm going to culinary school,' but it was like, the first time I saw the future and it didn't look like a black hole. I needed something to do that was like hockey, you know? I needed something I cared about and something to put my ambition behind. Something I was passionate about. Being behind the line, it's kind of like being on a team."  

"Do you miss it?" Connor says. It's dark enough that he feels comfortable, asking. 

"Every day," Jack says. His voice is rough, and very close. It might be from the smoke, which Connor can smell in the air even though Jack makes an effort to blow away from him. "But. I also miss my restaurants when I'm here, and I miss being in the studio when I'm back in my kitchens. I miss my sister like crazy. I miss Paris and I miss Boston. I mean." 

He shrugs. His eyes are dark. "I'd rather have something to miss than the alternative." 

…  

WEEK 6 

… 

"The fillet of your salmon was subpar, but the cook was, quite frankly, phenomenal," Chef tells him. "Which is why, Connor, I would like you to represent me in the final, cooking a restaurant-quality three course meal." 

"Thank you, Chef." 

"And, if you ever get bored of playing hockey for a living, I'm always looking for a good Sue-Chef." 

"I'd rather be a Connor-Chef," he says, and then Chef—Jack—is laughing at him, which seems. Unfair. Chef Hilary is nearly doubled over in the back of the room, and they're laughing at him and certainly not with him, but he can't help smiling, too. He's never seen Jack laugh like this before. It's a good look for him.  

"Sue isn't a woman's name," Jack says finally, still grinning, "It's a French word. A sous-chef is second-in-command, in a kitchen. It's like... like the alternate captain." 

"So like, next week when I'm cooking," Connor says, daring, "you'll be my sous-chef." 

"Keep dreaming," Jack says. The edges of a smile are still lingering on his lips. "And get back to your station." 

... 

WEEK 7 

… 

"What the hell are you going to do with $50,000," Jack says in his ear.  

"It's for charity," Connor says, but he doesn't pull back. It's a little surreal. He's wearing a chef's coat, and he'd pulled off a three-course meal, in under two hours, and—most importantly—without killing or maiming a single person.  

Uova da Raviolo—"very sexy," according to Chef, which Connor had no disagreements with—bison steak—"yes, Connor, you can cook a buffalo,"—and a molten chocolate lava-cake—"soft, just like you." 

He'd only almost-cried once, when Chef had asked him to make pasta again—that had been a rough week the first time around, with Jack watching him as intently as he does, shouting things at him like, "mount the pasta," and "crank it, Connor, work it hard." 

Jack stops hugging him then, which is. A loss. "Come see me in Boston, sometime," he says. "I'll put you to work. You've earned it." 

"I heard you're opening a restaurant in Toronto next year," Connor says. He says it, like, quietly, because he's still not supposed to be talking about it to anybody but his agent. Jack smells just a little smoky, this close in. Mostly like a really nice cologne, and also a little like the spices that Connor had been using, earlier.  

"Thinking about it," Jack says. "Heard you're going to hit the free market. Heard Toronto's looking for a new center. Hometown boy with a Cup, maybe." 

Connor flushes. It's—a lot, to know that Jack follows his career, maybe even watches him play. 

"Thinking about it," Connor says.  

"Boston or Toronto," Jack says. He claps Connor on the arm, right above the elbow. His hand lingers. "Wherever. My kitchen always has a place for you." 

… 

The Sabre and the Sword is, like. If they gave out Michelin Stars in Canada, it would have three. Tables are booked out months in advance. When Marty had gotten a table there for his girlfriend, she had cried.  

Mitch corners him in the locker room. "I hear you can get us in," he says. He's not menacing, but he makes a good run at it. "We need a table for twelve. Tonight." 

"Are you fucking kidding me," Connor says.  

"I know you've got the in, McDavid," Mitch says, and then he nudges Connor's shoulder, just shy of a punch. "Finally put that pretty face to good use, eh?" 

… 

The food is hearty enough that Connor doesn't feel guilty about it, veering just left of his meal plan. It's unpretentious, but shockingly delicious. Almost delicate. Down the table, Smitty is all but licking his plate. 

Their waitress has a starched white shirt and a perky blonde ponytail. "Chef would like to see you," she informs Connor, and then the whole goddamn table 'ooooohs' at him like he's been called to the principal's office. 

"Leave the bill with him," he says, pointing at Mitch.  

… 

Jack is running his line as efficiently as Connor runs his team.  

The kitchen doesn't stop working—his hands don't stop moving—even when Connor steps into it. One waitress had turned to stare as he'd been led back, but it's refreshing. To be Jack's guest, here, and not Connor McDavid. 

"When I told you to come visit," Jack says, just raising his voice above the clatter of pans, "I meant you should tell me that you're coming, first." 

"I told your hostess when I called for a table," Connor says, "Chef." 

Jack rolls his eyes. He's wearing a backwards cap, like he used to in his early days. It sends a strange pang through Connor. He's plating what Connor knows to be a bison steak, because he'd ordered it tonight. He'd won with it, back in August.  

This one makes his look like the sole of a ten-year-old boot.      

"Connor," Jack says, and grins. "This is my Sam-chef." The sous-chef dimples like he's trying not to laugh. "This is my Ryan-chef. This is my Kyle-chef." 

"Haha," Connor says. 

"Sit," Jack says, and jerks his head, and a table has appeared from nowhere behind him.  

Connor does. "I've already eaten," he says weakly, and then Jack deposits a plate in front of him with a perfect, single bite on it. The fish he had been eyeing on the menu earlier. 

"Eat," Jack says, ignoring him.  

It's not, like. Eating. Connor eats all the time—needs enough calories that he struggles to eat, sometimes. This is something else, entirely. This is, like. An experience. It's the best thing he's ever put in his mouth. 

Until the next plate is put in front of him.  

… 

When service winds down, Jack finally stops near him for longer than it takes to deposit another taste of food.  

"Well?" 

"How the fuck," Connor says. He'd had dessert last, which he'll skate off tomorrow. He doesn't regret a second of it. "Did you eat the crap I made you? This is. I mean." 

"Just think," Jack says drily, but his ears are pink. "If you'd called first, I would have had time to prepare you a proper chef's table." 

"Oh," Connor says, looking down. That's what this is, he realizes dumbly. He's at the chef's table. When he looks up, Sam-chef winks at him.  

"Let's get some air," Jack says. 

… 

The alley behind the restaurant—it's still an alley. It's a nice alley, but it's. An alley. 

The air is refreshingly cool and shockingly quiet after the bustle of the kitchen. It feels like it used to, between them, out in the dark and somewhere they're not supposed to be.  

"Congratulations," Connor says, "on your restaurant. I probably don't need to tell you this, but it's. Amazing. That doesn't do it justice, but I don't really have anything better, so." 

Jack laughs. 

"Sorry." 

"Jesus Christ, Connor," Jack says. His accent is back, the way he's leaning into Connor's name. Connor doesn't know what it means. "It's been months and you just walk into my restaurant? Jesus." 

"Sorry," Connor says again. "I've been cooking, some. I got a set of knives." 

"You got a set of knives," Jack repeats, with something like disbelief. "I almost keeled over when my hostess told me you were here tonight. I was, like. Fucking nervous." 

"What? Jack, that's. You're, like. So fucking talented. So mind-blowingly good. Why would you? I mean. You've cooked for me before." 

"Yeah, I've cooked for you," Jack says. "I've never cooked for  _the_  Connor McDavid and his entire hockey team, before." 

"You cooked for Drake," Connor says. "He was here on opening night." 

Jack keeps staring. "What?" Connor says. "I read it. Somewhere." 

"You've been following my work?" 

"You've been following mine?" Connor says. His fingers are tingling. 

"I'm a hockey fan," Jack shrugs. "This is Toronto. I can't walk down the street without seeing your face on a billboard, somewhere." 

"Yeah, I'm. Sorry." 

"Why," Jack says. He takes Connor's wrist. His hand is very warm. "It's not a bad face." 

"Oh," Connor says. 

"Tell me if I'm..." 

"No," Connor says, and then Jack's kissing him, against the hard brick of the alley wall. It's... It's like coming here tonight. Like coming to dinner tonight. Months of wondering how good it would be—and it's even better. 

Connor kisses back, hard. He knocks the hat off of Jack's head and then gets a better grip on his hair and kisses harder. Bites down on Jack's lower lip, because he knows he can take it.  

"Jesus Christ," Jack says, pulling back, and then he leans back in, slower. Sweeter. "I've been thinking about this for months." 

"You have?" 

Jack frowns at him. It's probably not meant to be serious. "You haven't?" 

"No, I," Connor says, and Jack's not wearing jeans for Connor to slide his hands into the back pockets of, but he fists his hands into the hem of Jack's coat, anyway. They're close to the same height, but Connor's wobbly, leaned back into the wall, and he feels smaller. He doesn't hate it. "I did. I have. I didn't know you—" 

"Duh," Jack says. He presses his lips just below Connor's ear, softly. "I thought you knew. I mean. I'm not, like, out. But. I'm not really in, either." 

 _Oh, God._ "I'm not out," Connor says. He feels more than sees Jack smile into his neck. 

"I know," he says. "That's—I used to play, too, remember? That's fine. I didn't expect." 

"We're outside," Connor says, reluctantly. He loosens his fingers, like. One at a time. Painfully. Lets Jack go.  

"Yeah," Jack says. "I have to go close up my kitchen." It doesn't look like he wants to pull back. Connor bites into his own lower lip, and shivers. 

"I bought a set of knives," Connor says. "I mean. If you wanted to come over, later, and see my knives. You could do that." 

Jack laughs at him, but that's. Alright. Expected. Into the crook of his neck. "You want me to see your knives," he teases. 

"In a manner of speaking," Connor says. "I mean. You know what I mean." 

"Yeah," Jack says. He sucks, sudden, on the underside of Connor's jaw, hard enough to mark, then pulls back to kiss him on the lips again. Connor might whine. He wouldn't deny it. "I'll come see your knives. Give me your address, and forty minutes. I'll come see your knives." 

… 

Connor wakes up in an empty bed, but there's clattering in the kitchen. His condo has never smelled this good before. He's not sure that any condo, ever, has smelled this good. 

"Hi," he says, a little dumbly. Jack's wearing Connor's sweatpants and the joke apron Connor's teammates left here the last time he made dinner for them and nothing else. There's a faded clover tattoo on his shoulder blade, a mouth-shaped bruise beside it. There are fading pink lines crossing his pale back from Connor's fingers. 

"Hey," he says. He's stirring something on the stove that Connor knows he didn't have in his fridge an hour ago. Probably it's something that Connor's never even heard of before. "I thought I would be done before you woke up. We were up late, last night." 

Connor blushes, comes to stand behind Jack. "Hi," he says again, and kisses his jaw. "I thought you would be in bed, still. I was going to make you coffee. You know. Because we were up late, last night." 

"It's in the pot," Jack says, and brushes his lips over Connor's cheek. "The markets are best early." 

"What are you making?" Connor says, and hops up on the counter. 

"That's dangerous," Jack says mildly. "I take it black, by the way." 

Connor rolls his eyes, and hops back down to fetch him a cup, too. "You're the one cooking shirtless," he says, and boosts himself back up to watch. 

"I'm wearing an apron," Jack says. "Thank you, for the coffee. And it's healthy, I promise." He lifts a spoon to Connor's mouth. Connor still doesn't know what it is, but he would eat it for the rest of his life.  

"Oh my god," he says. 

"You should have waited for me in bed," Jack says, not a little smug.  

"Oh my god, Jack." 

Connor doesn't think he deserves to be laughed at, for that. After all—"it's not every day that a Michelin-starred chef makes me breakfast, okay?" 

"Okay," Jack says easily, and pulls a plate down from behind Connor's head. "It's not every day that I get to cook for a Stanley Cup winner." 

"You cooked for me last night." 

It's like—Connor still can't get over it, the way that Jack produces a plate in front of him like fucking magic on the same stove that Connor has used, like. Maybe twice. The way that he knows those hands can make delicate profiteroles as easily as they break down a chicken as easily as they crack an egg. 

As easily as they can take Connor apart.  

"That's different," Jack says, and hands Connor a fork, coming to stand between his spread legs where Connor's perched on the counter. He doesn't look away. Connor thinks about, like. He thinks about  _cooking is about caring for people._ He thinks about taking Jack back to bed, but he's starving and he feels lucky, to have this. He feels very aware that—as many people as Jack's cooked for, it's not like this for anyone else.  

He's the one that gets this.  

"Thanks," he says, and the bite he takes is so good that he actually has to close his eyes. It only feels right to put the next forkful to Jack's lips.  

Jack hums, and squeezes Connor's thighs where he's palming them. "Needs salt." 

"It's perfect," Connor says, and kisses him, softly, slides off the counter. He puts the plate down for a minute, just to get his bearings—to kiss Jack harder, for a minute, hands around his neck. He unties the apron strings.  

"Come on," he says, just as Jack makes a move to grope at him more seriously. He has a very sturdy dining table that he seriously hopes is put to good use, soon. "Let's eat." 

**Author's Note:**

> (coda: Connor's very naked in bed like, "I heard that an anonymous donor matched my $50,000 donation to that charity."
> 
> Jack's also very naked in bed. His whole chest flushes pink and he says, "oh. Weird.")
> 
> THINGS I DID NOT DO: research, except for watching too much cooking TV (sorry, my food-minded people). Think about why a Canadian player on a Canadian team would be on an American show until literally this moment. Google 'cooking quotes' because I couldn't think of a title and then realize how many 'cooking quotes' equate cooking and sex. Do with that what you will.
> 
> The first version of this was going to be chef!Jack vs. pastrychef!Connor as they learned to respect (and bang) each other. Then I saw the video of someone asking Connor what he liked to cook and him being APPALLED that someone would expect his DELICATE HANDS to MAKE HIS OWN FOOD and this happened instead.


End file.
